


Masochism

by strawberriez8800



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Moments In-between, Series 2 to Series 4, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23786260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriez8800/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: A sick fairy tale it was, yet a fairy tale all the same. Neither of them emerged unscathed, though it was well fucking worth it.Tommy and Alfie, from the moment they meet—with a twist.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 14
Kudos: 65





	Masochism

**Author's Note:**

> Tommy and Alfie, plot-wise it is canon compliant from Series 2 to 4, but with a twist in that they develop something a little _different_. This was interesting to write. Once again, this is written in vignettes of thoughts and moments, because I have a thing for this sort of story. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> P.S. I've never written this much for anything in such a short span of time. This pair is a drug, truly.

Men—a species Alfie wasn’t unfamiliar with.

 _Pretty_ men, however, was a different topic entirely, and Thomas Shelby was a very, very pretty man—far more than he had any right to be, even with the cuts on his face and the blood in his eye.

Pretty and eager to please Thomas was, if his flattery of Alfie’s bread was any indication.

Fucking arrogant, too. It suited Thomas in a way—this arrogance, this air of self-assuredness that made Alfie want to bring a knife to his throat just to see the flash of surprise in his eyes.

Alfie didn’t, of course; there was work to be done.

“You know, I always thought you’d have a great, big fucking gold ring around your nose,” Alfie said during their first meeting.

It was true; he hadn’t met many Gypsies in his time and he certainly hadn’t conducted business with one, especially one whose infamy almost matched his own. There was a first time for everything, all right, and Tommy Shelby was nothing if not a remarkable introduction to their kind.

Tommy simply stared at him, unfazed.

Impassive son of a bitch.

Alfie decided then and there he was going to make this fucker _feel_ —one way or another.

* * *

Sometimes, when the night was a little too quiet and his mind a little too loud, Alfie liked to imagine how it would be to slash a dagger across Tommy’s cheek and let hot, fresh blood spill from the wound, to feel the knife’s edge against his soft skin.

Oh, what a wonder it would be to mar that perfect face and claim it as Alfie’s own work of art, though he suspected Tommy would slit his throat before he’d have the chance to.

* * *

There was simply no reason for Tommy to be on Alfie’s mind all the fucking time.

Except these things weren’t usually explicable, were they?

Blue, red, black, white—colours in contrast yet in precise harmony when painted on a portrait of Tommy Shelby.

“That one, yeah,” Alfie said, pointing to the whore with black hair, full red lips and soulful blue eyes. “That one shall do just fine.”

She wasn’t; she was, however, too soft, too pliant—tame.

Not like _Tommy_.

Even the way she sucked him was bloody dull.

Alfie stopped her. “Get me someone with a cock, woman.” He lifted her chin with a rough hand. “Preferably one with blue eyes, all right, because I want him to watch me with those eyes when I fuck his mouth. Can you do that, hmm?”

She nodded, took the rolled up cash from Alfie’s hand and left.

It wasn’t long before the new whore entered the room. Not as easy on the eyes as Thomas, though the necessities were there.

It was good enough for now.

“Get down on your knees.”

One day, Alfie was going to have the real thing.

* * *

The goat’s throat was cut and blood spilled onto the floor, staining it a glorious, glorious red.

“That’s from Sabini,” Alfie said to Arthur Shelby before knocking him out cold.

It was fucking unfortunate that Arthur wasn’t even a fraction as pretty as his brother.

The real thing was yet to come.

Alfie’s patience was running precariously thin.

One day.

* * *

Tommy Shelby, the _cunt,_ had the gall to rig Alfie’s distillery with a hand grenade as his fucking leverage, or so he claimed.

Yet there was nothing in those blue, blue eyes that Alfie could see which might indicate otherwise. Clearly, Tommy was a whole new brand of absolutely batshit insane and it was fucking _perfect_.

It was with this brand of insanity they shook on a deal, but there was one last thing.

“Did you really think I was going to settle for thirty-five percent and call it a fucking day?” Alfie said. “Give me some bloody credit, mate.”

Tommy regarded him in silence, eyebrows raised as though _Alfie_ was the one being fucking ridiculous. “What do you want?”

There was no one around except them in Alfie’s office—a fact of which they were both acutely aware.

It was as good an excuse as any, so Alfie pushed him up against the wall. The lack of resistance from Tommy surprised him in all the best ways, and for a moment, they simply appraised each other with the weight of their gaze, mouths held so close they shared the air between them and, God, how the fuck was it possible for anyone to be so insufferably beautiful—

Tommy’s voice rasped against his throat as he said, “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

When they kissed, there was nothing gentle about it. Teeth clashed; hands pulled; fingers raked along skin and left lewd pink marks in their wake. Their bodies were pressed up against each other from thigh to chest and Tommy’s clothed cock rubbed against Alfie’s and it simply wasn't enough because he wanted to take Tommy right fucking _here._

Yet it was a bloody foolish idea, wasn’t it, showing this—this _weakness_ in front of someone who would surely become an enemy sooner or later? For fuck’s sake, they _had_ been enemies until quite recently and, for all Alfie knew, Tommy might be planning his murder right this moment.

Alfie shoved him away. “Fuck off.”

Tommy said nothing, didn’t move either.

“Did you hear me, Tom? I said fuck off—now.”

Keeping his unnerving gaze on Alfie, Tommy stepped closer, slowly, and Alfie was struck by an abrupt urge to smack him across the mouth for being such an audacious little _fuck_. Tommy brought their mouths together with a shocking tenderness, then—he took Alfie’s bottom lip between his teeth and bit on the flesh, drawing blood.

When Tommy pulled away, there was Alfie’s blood on his lips and the picture was not a little obscene.

Tommy straightened his coat and his hair—vain fucking bastard—and, without a word, left Alfie’s office.

* * *

In the following days, Alfie picked at the torn flesh on his lip, refusing to let it heal, to let Tommy’s mark on him fade even a single bit.

He reveled in this little pain, licked at the oozing blood and every time he did, his thoughts would be taken to Tommy.

At some point, the physical wound healed despite his efforts.

If only the one in his mind would disappear just as easily.

* * *

Mere thoughts and cheap whores weren’t half-way close to the real thing that was Tommy fucking Shelby.

Alfie knew this, of course, though he didn’t let the knowledge stop him; after all, what would be left of a man without an outlet?

For this reason, Alfie sought whatever means he could to release the ghosts of Tommy that haunted him every time he closed his eyes, his relentless _want_ to see Tommy undone by his own mouth and hands and cock, his utter _need_ to fuck him—again and again—until there was nothing left but shuddering gasps and pleading eyes.

In reality, however, they carried forward as business partners and nothing more.

What a fucking shame.

* * *

The next time they saw each other, Tommy was a married man.

“A pretty blonde thing she is, yeah,” Alfie said, smirking. “Do you love her?”

There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation when Tommy answered, “Yes.”

It was senseless, really, this—this ugly feeling that burned at the pit of Alfie’s stomach, the flame growing and growing until the only thing he could see was white-hot red, thus Alfie pressed him up against the wall and held him down with both arms.

Once again, there was no protest from Tommy—only a little satisfied smirk, perhaps in knowing that despite it all, Alfie still wanted him and, fuck, did he _want_ him. By virtue of that ever fucking salacious leer from Tommy, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say the feeling was mutual.

“Did you miss me?” Tommy asked under his touch.

It _had_ been a while, though there was no chance in a fucking million Alfie would ever acknowledge he did, in fact, miss him.

Alfie ignored his ridiculous question. “You like them soft and smooth and gentle, huh?”

“Variety is the spice of life, Alfie. Haven’t you heard?”

“Fuck you.”

Alfie kissed him roughly, almost breaking the skin of Tommy’s lip; it would serve him right if it drew blood—payback from their last tryst.

They fucked against Alfie’s desk that afternoon.

* * *

Somewhere along the way, they had fallen into a routine of working by day, fucking by night.

The thing about their affair was the singular effectiveness of _compartmentalisation_. Business and pleasure were mutually exclusive, which was just as well, for there were betrayals, too—once or twice; it was fucking tradition at this point, for Alfie to turn on Tommy in light of a preferable deal, and for Tommy to come back for more as though the fucker had never learned his lesson.

Alfie wouldn’t have it any other way, and by the looks of it, Tommy wouldn’t either.

A sick fairy tale it was, yet a fairy tale all the same.

There was nothing romantic about it, only the pleasure of knowing there were bruises from hungry kisses and cuts from raking nails, hidden under clothes like the filthy secrets they were.

Alfie wondered what Tommy’s excuse to his wife would be when she asked.

This little ponder sent a smirk to his mouth that lingered for the rest of the day.

* * *

When it was confirmed Alfie would die by cancer of all fucking things, his foremost thought was one of wonder.

It was nothing short of a bloody miracle, really, for a man of his _profession_ to die from a disease rather than, say, having his head smashed to bits by one of his many enemies or being shot in an alley after a deal gone bad.

At least he had a choice in his curtain call.

Not many could say the same.

* * *

Margate it was, Alfie had decided—the embodiment of peace and repose, everything the afterlife would be and everything _his_ life hadn’t been.

Tommy, too—Alfie couldn’t forget about the bastard, could he now? Yes, Alfie was going to die in Margate at the hands of Tommy Shelby, and this thing—this fucking insipid act of sentimentality was the closest to romantic they had ever come to.

There was irony buried in this somewhere, yet Alfie no longer cared to look; it didn’t bloody matter anymore, did it?

It had been good while it lasted.

Alfie wondered if Tommy would agree with that; he didn’t ask—didn’t want Tommy’s rejection to be the last thing he knew before the lights went out.

“—so I said, ‘Margate’ right, and here I am,” Alfie was rambling now, and he was all too aware of the gun Tommy had trained on him—they both were. 

If only the fucker would just _shoot him now_.

“Fucking get on with it, stop acting like a little girl—” Alfie pulled out his gun and shot at Tommy and what a fucking joke it was that he could still gain the upper hand when Tommy already had his finger on the fucking trigger—

The sound of a second gunshot was the last thing Alfie heard.


End file.
